Independence
by Writer Want You Forever
Summary: A man who is a mystery and a girl who is trying to win her independence meet and are destined to misunderstand one another.


Holding back the yellowing curtains, she watched two old women in yoga pants and sweatshirts walk out of the gym across the street. Absentmindedly, she let go of the dingy fabric and turned to pace the waxy floor for the fifth time since she'd arrived. She might have to do it, leave...start over, again.

The unmistakable roar of a truck pulling up outside snapped her out of her contemplation and set her heart to beating in a nervous unsteady rhythm. Walking quickly away from the window she fluffed her hair and rubbed her lips together in anticipation but immediately chastised herself for doing it.

The bell above the diner door rang out forcing her to turn and greet her help for the day. No change whatsoever, she didn't know why she expected anything different. He didn't even speak, only eyed her with irritation running his hand nervously through his hair. It fell to her to make what little conversation was necessary to complete their task for the afternoon. She wished she had the courage to take a page from his book and just stand there silent until he was forced to speak to her. It would never work. He would only shrug and leave the room, leave her behind. She didn't know why that bothered her, burdened her.

"Gurdy sent you?"

He nodded and replied, "Yeah, I have all the kitchen stock in the truck." A little more consistent with his character, he looked toward the door like a recently caged wild animal and said, "Where you want it?"

"You can just put it all out here, on the floor or the tables. I'll be coming by tomorrow to put it all away in the kitchen." She had turned to look toward the kitchen as she spoke and heard the bell above the door ring before she had even finished speaking. Relaxing, she let out a long exasperated sigh and decided it was definitely going to be the same old same old.

Pulling her hair back into a low ponytail and removing her hoodie she made herself busy by organizing what he brought in, cups with cups, plates with plates, hoping to make things go faster when she put it all away the next day. Wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm she glanced outside through the now propped open door.

She studied him while he worked. She wondered what kind of man he really was. He avoided her like the plague yet he was respected by everyone in the community. They all left him alone for some reason that no one would tell her. What made her different from everyone else? Was it because she was an outsider? She felt an overwhelming need to finally understand his actions or rather lack of action over the past six months.

"This is the last of it." He carried in a large plastic crate filled with coffee cups. He bent to lower the crate and place it on the floor by one of the tables.

This could be her only opportunity. She had him alone. She could ask him. Panic and uncertainty filled her as his arms extended to lower the crate to the floor. "Why don't you speak to me? What have I done to you to make you hate me so much?"

She blurted it out quickly and then heaved in a huge breath as if asking those questions had sucked the air right out of her lungs.

He stopped mid stride, arms still extended, the crate hovering above the floor causing the muscles in his arms to strain. He slowly turned toward her, his expression part frustration, part disbelief. She knew it. He did hate her and now he was annoyed that she couldn't see the obvious reason why. Well, then let him explain, at least he would be speaking to her.

Turning his attention back to the crate, he carefully placed it on the floor and rose to a full standing position. Horror and shame filled her. He was just going to walk out of here and not even answer her question. Was she that worthless, that inconsequential? Insecurity threatened to choke her.

Looking at the floor he seemed to take a steadying breath and then turned his body toward her. Some emotion she didn't recognize played on his face as he closed the distance between them. Shocking her, he reached out, grabbing her by her shoulders and dragging her toward him.

It happened so suddenly and seemed to last so long that she had trouble believing that it actually happened. It wasn't until she received the first postcard that she allowed herself to remember it, to cherish it.

His hands left her shoulders and ran up into her hair, inadvertently loosening her ponytail and drawing her into his embrace. His large hands came around to cup her face, his thumbs working together to bring her lips up to meet his. Softly, slowly, reverently he kissed her and kissed her.

Taking his time, he seemed to say with sweet affection what he could not or would not with words. His hands stroked her neck, her hair, her face as his lips caressed hers. So caught off guard by the sudden, unexpected change of events, she could only clutch at his shirt and then his back, eventually losing herself altogether to his attentions. He had swept her off her feet.

Releasing his hold on her and placing his forehead against hers, he paused to catch his breath. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he seemed to be having a conversation with God himself, his look was one part helplessness, one part rebellion. Looking her firmly in the eyes for a moment, he leaned in to plant one last tender kiss on her lips before turning and marching determinedly out the door.

She stood there frozen, forced to listen to the clinging of the bell signaling his departure.


End file.
